For years, Air Force Captain Jason Conrad flew and instructed in the supersonic T-38. Despite his decline into a self-destructive lifestyle, he was considered one of the best instructors on the base. Following a terrifying jet crash, Jason finds himself on a very short list of people on their way out the door. It is a surprise to everyone when he is assigned to the home of the U.S. Air Force Flight Test Center. Jason should have known that in a ‘one mistake Air Force’ where you ‘do more with less’, everything would not be what it appears. Attached to a secret project with a shadowy contractor, Jason is caught between two complications; an overbearing, retired general determined to see him fail; and an aggressive television reporter who wants him in prison. When a ghost from the past shows up and a beautiful, yet mysterious woman enters his life, Jason soon discovers his special project has more secrets than anyone knows about . . . and it could cost him his life.
Book Details:
Genre: Thriller
Published by: SATCOM Publishing
Publication Date: April 2016
Number of Pages: 458
ISBN: 0991476425, 9780991476428
Purchase Links:
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Read an excerpt:
Chapter 1 April 14, 2001 SHERRI DAVIS APPROACHED THE ENTRYWAY, already regretting her decision. After filling out paperwork and release forms for thirty minutes, she stood hidden behind the filthy curtain covering the doorway, the knot in her belly growing tighter. She pulled a small section of the worn fabric to the side. Colored lights blinked rapidly, and several spotlights locked on the mirrored ball above the stage, creating hundreds of dancing reflections around the large room. “It doesn’t hurt, ya know,” a voice said over the loud music. Turning her head, Sherri spied a girl in her late teens standing next to her. “You look nervous. It’s your first time, isn’t it?” the girl said to Sherri. “Yes,” she said, releasing the curtain and facing the woman. In the dark hallway, Sherri could barely make out the girl’s features, though her heavy eyelashes and straight black hair were clearly prominent. It was the young girl whose locker was next to hers. “It’s not like sex. Doesn’t hurt the first time.” Sherri nodded. “Got any advice?” “Have fun sweetie, that’s my advice,” the girl said. “Go out there and relax. You’ll do fine.” “Relax,” Sherri replied. “Right.” “Honey, once those assholes start handing you twenties to sit on their lap, you’ll relax,” the girl said. “Now get on out there and bring home the bacon,” the girl said as she patted Sherri on the rear. Sherri noticed the pat was a little too soft and lingered a little too long before the girl retreated back down the hallway toward the stage entrance. Sherri sighed heavily, her hands pressing the pleats of her skirt. She cupped her breasts for a quick adjustment and pulled her shoulders back. Her transition from the dark hallway to the work area was dramatic. The mist spewing from the smoke machine burned her eyes, and her ears pulsed each time the deep bass vibrated through the speakers. Her steps were short and deliberate, as if she had a choice in these five-inch stiletto heels. She gave up the security of the doorway, crossed her arms in front of her breasts and meandered between the tables, dodging a waitress carrying a tray full of beers. The girl, nineteen at most, took the stage like a veteran and danced around the pole while a variety of wishful male suitors watched her every move. Sherri scanned the crowd. The darkness of the bar, the mist, and the flashing lights made it difficult to see anything in detail. The music made her head hurt. Unable to see the two men she was looking for, she began to worry she might be wasting her time. “Hey, baby,” an overweight, drunk businessman said as he reached out and tried to grab her arm. “Not tonight, sweetie,” Sherri replied, pulling away, never making eye contact. She gave the bald drunk the brush-off with her right hand. He shook his head and walked off toward another girl; alcohol making him more optimistic than he had a right to be. While she looked the part—plaid miniskirt and a white button-down tied in front of her push-up bra—she realized she wasn’t acting the part. She sensed her movements through the bar were awkward. Relax. Standing in place, she tapped her foot to the music and rhythmically swayed her body. Sherri closed her eyes and started a slow, seductive dance in place. Her hips swayed like sea oats blowing in the ocean breeze. It didn’t take long before the men nearby stared at her instead of the stage, waving twenty dollar bills at her. Feeling more confident, she moved around the bar again. She had to work fast, as she was scheduled to make her stage debut in half an hour. After a couple minutes meandering through the crowded bar and refusing three more requests for lap dances, she saw the first subject. He had come out of the men’s room and returned to a table located away from the stage. His name was Ahmed Alnami, a Saudi Arabian living in and moving around the United States. Now he was in Pensacola, sitting at a table with Saeed Alghamdi, his partner now getting a lap dance from one of the girls. Alnami sat at the table where he took a long swig of his beer and gave his partner a big smile. Weren't these two supposed to be devout Muslims? Why were they here? Sherri recognized her opportunity and approached the table. She leaned toward Alnami, her breasts at eye level, right in front of him. He stared in her eyes, looking fearful. Not the fear of danger. The innocent fear, like a teenage boy about to lose his virginity. “Hey, big boy,” she cooed, “are you lonely?” Alnami continued to stare, clearly unsure what to do. Sherri smiled and pointed at her eyes. “Honey, you need to change your focus from here, to here,” she said as she moved her hands to her breasts. Alnami’s face beamed. “Yes, please to sit,” he said in broken English. Sherri sat on his lap. He was a small man; Sherri was taller than he. No wonder he was smiling—a blond Amazon had landed in his lap. She reached over and ran her hand through his hair. It was oily and hadn’t been washed for a while. Wiping her hand on the back of his shirt, she cringed, yet forced a weak smile. Alnami lunged his face forward and buried it in her breasts. Sherri pushed him back. She wanted to punch him, but that would undo all she’d accomplished. “Settle down, big boy, we need to get to know each other first.” “This is what I want,” he said, pointing at his partner, whose lap dancer was grinding aggressively into him. “Oh, you’ll get that and more,” she replied. “We’ve got to do some talking first.” “What is this talking?” he said in a louder voice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. The smile faded and his eyes bulged. “I want boobies! I want the grind-a-grind!” The teenage innocence disappeared, and the self-absorbed arrogance of the immature adult surfaced. He started to push her off his lap. Sensing she was losing her opportunity, she grabbed his head and shoved his face back into her breasts. “Better?” She pulled his face from her bosom, and the big smile had returned. “Yes please.” “Now, before I give you the grind-a-grind, we’ve got to get to know each other. What’s your name?” “Ahm—” He paused. “Keevin. My name is Keevin.” “Kevin? Okay, Kevin will work for now. My name is Bambi. What do you do, Kevin?” “I do fine. Thank you, Bom-bi.” Sherri cringed. This was painful. “What’s your job?” “Oh, I train to be pilot.” Interesting. She shifted herself on his lap and ran the fingers of her left hand along the buttons of his shirt. “Are you out at the Navy base?” “Yes.” His eyes remained focused on her breasts. “How long are you in town?” “Two more weeks.” Sherri thought for a moment. The two Saudis had already been in Pensacola for two weeks. Obviously, they weren’t students, and they weren’t flying with the Navy, but they were there to fly something. “You must be really smart,” she said. “Not everybody gets to fly airplanes.” “I am one of Allah’s warriors,” Alnami said, his voice rising. “Allahu Akbar.” Sherri studied Alnami. “What is Allah having you do?” She bit her lower lip, realizing she might have pushed the conversation too far, too fast. His eyes moved from her breasts back to her eyes. His nostrils flared as he bared his yellowing teeth. “No more talk of this!” Alnami shouted, unnoticed by the rest of the room. “I want grind-a-grind from you!” He pulled a fifty out of his pocket and waved it at her. Sherri sighed, realizing she would not get any more information unless she took it to the next level. That was not going to happen. She took the bill and stuck it in her bra. She rose from his lap and posed in front of him, hands on her hips. He’s done talking. It’s time to get out of here. She slowly swayed back and forth, running her hands along the sides of her hips up to her breasts. The dancing must have been good, because she noticed his partner staring at her while still getting his lap dance. Sherri leaned forward, nearly rubbing her breasts from his knees to his head, her body barely missing contact with his. She said in his ear, “How about you and me leave this place?” Alnami’s smile grew bigger. “Yes, please!” Pushing herself away from him, she moved behind his chair and ran hands down the front of his chest. “Okay, I’ve got to go clock out and change clothes. I’ll be back here in fifteen minutes. Don’t move.” “I not move. Don’t change your clothes! You sexy momma!” Sherri forced a weak smile. “Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” She left the table and headed to the entryway with the dirty curtain. She walked through the dark hallway, entered the dressing room, and pulled the door behind her, shielding her eyes from the steady light. As her eyes adjusted, she walked to her locker and gathered her things. Standing in front of one of the mirrors, she pulled off the blond wig, and her deep red hair fell to her shoulders. Pulling out a brush, she touched it up from where the wig had pressed it down or tangled it. She then grabbed her tan overcoat and slipped it over her shoulders. Retrieving her clothes from her locker, she knew making a quick exit was more important than comfort. A few of the other girls gazed at her with curiosity and envy. “Sorry, ladies, I’m not cut out for this,” she said. She turned and walked out the back door of the strip club. Reaching the exit, she glanced left and right as she walked out the door. The light by the back door was burned out, making the parking lot dark. She clutched her purse tightly and gripped the can of mace in her coat pocket as she walked to her rental car, a shiny new red Toyota Celica. She grabbed her keys and cell phone from her purse and climbed in. Kicking off the stiletto heels, she cranked the engine and pulled on to Highway 98, dialing on her cell phone as she drove. The phone answered on the first ring. “Did you get it?” the voice asked. “No, I didn’t get that far. Alnami was getting a little too friendly.” “I told you this might happen. Did you find out anything?” “They’re here two more weeks, and they’ll be flying next week, but I don’t know what and I don’t know why. Sorry, it’s the best I was willing to do under the circumstances.” “Okay,” the voice replied. “Get back here tomorrow. I’ve got something else for you.” “Like what?” She was more interested in getting some rest at this point. “Our informant in New York wants to meet with you ASAP.” “All right,” Sherri said begrudgingly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” As she hung up the phone, the car lurched forward. The phone slipped from her fingers, falling to the floorboard as her body slammed into her seat belt. She glanced in the rearview mirror as a car slid back and accelerated toward her again. “What the hell?” she said, assessing the situation. She put both hands on the wheel, and her foot pressed the accelerator as the car made contact with the red Celica a second time. As she reached the Pensacola Bay Bridge, the vehicle behind her changed lanes. She struggled as it maneuvered to strike her car in the left rear fender in an attempt to spin the car. She accelerated again, making the assailant miss his mark. Traffic was light this time of night, but there were enough vehicles to put between her and her attacker. The mystery car pulled behind her, two car lengths back. She managed to accelerate away from it, but still had a good two miles to go on the bridge. Every time she passed a vehicle, the car followed her. Who the hell was attacking her? Could it be Alnami? No, she hadn’t been gone long enough. He would still be waiting for her inside the strip club, probably constructing ridiculous fantasies in his head. It was a dark, starless night, and the rise in the bridge was a half mile away. This hump in the bridge allowed larger boats to enter and exit Pensacola Bay from the Gulf. Once on the other side, she would be in civilization again. Vinyl and glass shards flew everywhere inside the vehicle as bullets pierced the back window of her car and hit the passenger side of the dashboard. She screamed and let go of the steering wheel, her foot coming off the gas for an instant. “Holy shit!” Her eyes darted back and forth as her car veered toward the rail to her right. Grabbing the steering wheel, she pressed the accelerator once again as she jerked her car away from the side rail. “Oh, God,” she said, “why the hell are they shooting at me?” She swerved to put another car between them, then pushed the accelerator to the floor. The innocent car she just passed bumped into the guardrail, sending sparks flying. It spun around as the assailant hit the car from the rear, then continued on. The dark sedan accelerated and closed the distance between them. She felt trapped as her Celica could not gain any more speed. Another burst of machine-gun fire. Sherri screamed as the bullets struck the rear of her vehicle. At the bottom of the hump, she checked her rearview mirror. Shattered glass and bullet holes in the rear window were all she could see. There was no sign of the vehicle chasing her. Her heart raced as she hoped they’d stopped their pursuit. Based on the lights in the distance, she estimated she’d reach the end of the bridge in less than a minute. With a quarter mile to go until she reached the end of the bridge, the car shuddered. Sherri’s gaze shifted to the front of her car, and her shoulders slumped. She beat her fist against the steering wheel as smoke rose from under the hood and the car started decelerating. The speedometer read 80 mph at this point, but the car no longer responded to her foot pressing the accelerator. She pushed it all the way to the floor, but nothing. In her rearview mirror, she noticed the assailant closing in behind her. The car had closed within three car lengths when another round of bullets hit her vehicle. Her heart raced as she reached the end of the bridge and the Celica slowed to 55 mph. “Shit! If I break down on this bridge, I’m done,” she said as she pumped the accelerator. “Who the hell are these guys?” The Celica slowed to 25 mph now, and other cars quickly caught and passed her. Searching for her assailant in the mirror, she saw the dark-colored sedan make a U-turn at the end of the bridge and head toward Pensacola. In front of her, red-and-blue lights danced on top of a parked car. Sherri had driven into a speed trap, and her assailants had turned and run. “Yeah!” she shrieked. “Take that, asshole! You’d better run!” A faint nervous smile eased across her face as she glided the unpowered vehicle into the right lane and onto the side of the road. The car came to a stop, and as soon as she put it in park, her body began shaking as the adrenaline faded. Leaning forward on the steering wheel, she started sobbing. She had almost been killed. A myriad of thoughts raced through her head as the police car pulled in behind her. The officer walked up and tapped on the window with his flashlight. Her finger pushed the button aft, lowering the window, and she covered her eyes as he shined the light in her face. “Driver’s license and registration,” he said. “No problem,” she replied. Automatically, she dug in her purse for her driver’s license. When she reached into the glove box for the rental agreement, she glanced in the passenger’s side mirror and saw the dark outline of the officer’s partner approaching the other side of her vehicle. You think he’d say something about the smoke coming from under the hood, she thought, or the blown-out back window. She stopped digging and glanced back at the officer who spoke to her. Is he wearing jeans? With a quick glance back to the passenger-side mirror, she saw his partner approaching the vehicle was wearing—shorts? Wait, how could this guy not have noticed the bullet holes? “Hey, what agency are you guys with?” she said as she turned back to the cop. Before she could react, he jammed a long stick through the window and pressed it into her neck. The electric shock was fast and intense, then—blackness. Chapter 2 April 15, 2001 A SMALL SLIVER of glistening sunlight cut through the dark hotel room, illuminating its small interior. Dust particles danced through the piercing beam like fireflies on a clear summer night. The light pried into his consciousness while the grinding gears of a construction vehicle outside ripped it open. Jason Conrad buried his face in a pillow and moaned as his head felt ready to explode. He recognized this place, barely. The hangover reminded him that his recent lifestyle choices had their consequences. It didn’t take long for his body to tell him he needed to relieve himself. Sitting up, he swung his feet off the bed and glanced next to him, rubbing the sides of his throbbing temples with his fingertips. The blonde lay strewn out, nude on top of the sheets. She had every appearance of being attractive from here, but he struggled to remember her face. He definitely could not remember her name. Jason tiptoed to the bathroom, as much to protect his pounding head as not to wake the blonde. After relieving himself, he washed his hands and face and brushed his teeth. When he left the bathroom, she was sitting up in the bed, watching him. She is pretty. Now, what is her name again? “Good morning, sexy,” she said. She sounded much more awake than he did. “Hi,” Jason said. She was too bubbly for early morning. “I can’t believe you’re up,” she said in a strong Texas drawl. “Yeah.” “Am I still beautiful?” Jason grinned. “Absolutely.” “You’re quiet this morning. You wouldn’t stop talking last night.” Vague memories of the night before pushed themselves into his consciousness. He crawled back into the bed, and she leaned over and kissed him. “Oh, you brushed your teeth. I’ll be right back,” she said, climbing out of bed and walking to the bathroom. Jason studied her figure. She had all the right equipment. He could see why he would have been talkative. Now he wished he didn’t drink as much. He realized this was a night he would have liked to remember. Yesterday started off well. As flight lead of a four-ship of T-38s, they’d done a flyover for a Texas Rangers game. It was a great TDY, or temporary duty, to Dallas, with per diem. The flyover during the national anthem at the Ballpark in Arlington was uneventful, and they landed at Naval Air Station Fort Worth, formerly known Carswell Air Force Base, right afterward. When they finished securing their jets, a limousine arrived to pick them up outside Base Operations. One of the Rangers’ owners provided the limo for their ride to the stadium. It contained a cooler full of beer and a tray of cheese and crackers to tide them over until they arrived at the stadium in Arlington. It was a tight fit with eight sweaty, cocky T-38 instructors, but they didn’t care. They were amazed at the red carpet treatment and relished every minute of it. The pilots were treated like rock stars in the owners’ VIP suite, with all the food and alcohol they wanted. After the game, the limo drove them to the West End in Dallas. Jason and his buddies found themselves in Gators, a piano bar/restaurant with dueling white grand pianos and a rowdy crowd. He remembered meeting her at Gators. What is her name? Jason rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. What have I become? Is this the life I want to live? The nameless faces of his women over the years skipped through his thoughts. He felt empty. Like every other one-night stand, she crept back into his head. What happened to the one who’d slipped away six years ago? Whatever happened to Kathy Delgato? The door to the bathroom opened, and the blonde sauntered back into the room. She took the time to brush her hair and put on lipstick. Posing at the end of the bed, she riveted her eyes at him wantonly. “Oh, good, you’re still awake.” She traipsed around the bed to the window and opened the curtain, standing nude in front of the window. “I can’t help it,” she said with a wry smile, turning to face him. “I’m an exhibitionist.” “Clearly.” “What time do you fly back?” She posed seductively in front of the window. Jason glanced at the clock. Red digital numbers displayed eight thirty-three. The pilots planned to leave the hotel at noon. “I need to be at the base at eleven,” he lied. “Oh,” she said, sauntering toward him. “Do I…” He paused. “Do I need to get you a ride home?” Jason couldn’t remember how they made it back to the hotel. “No silly. I drove us, remember?” No, and I can’t remember your name either, so please don’t ask. “Well,” he said, glancing at the clock, “we have some time.” The blonde smiled and crawled back onto the bed. Jason stopped hating himself as she wrapped her arms around him. Even drunk, he had done very well. SHERRI SHIVERED from the cool breeze as she lay on her back. Fading in and out of consciousness, she tossed her head from side to side. Various colors edged their way into her brain as she awoke. She writhed in place, and the ground shifted slightly. Her muscles ached, but the sun on her face was irritating. When she tried to open her eyes, her hand shielded them from the brightness. The smell of saltwater filled her nostrils as waves crashed onto the shore. She was at the beach. The sun glared as she struggled again to open her eyes. The sky was a bright blue, and seagulls called out to her as they bobbed and weaved ten feet overhead, floating rather than flying. Her body ached. Rolling her head to the right, she saw nothing but white sand and sea oats. To the left was more of the same, but with a stinging sensation as she turned her head. Sherri managed to roll over on her left side and prop herself up on her elbow. Her joints were stiff and her skin covered with goose bumps. Her head hurt as she tried to figure out how she ended up here, wherever here turned out to be. Shifting her weight, she managed to sit up on her knees and check herself out. Nothing was broken, and she didn’t notice any injuries other than the neck pain, stiff joints, and sore muscles. She realized she still wore the schoolgirl outfit from the strip club the night before. Checking her bra and panties, she found everything in place and Alnami’s fifty-dollar bill still tucked in her bra. What the hell happened? Someone chased her on the bridge and shot up her car, but she managed to escape. The cop. He did something to her. When she placed her hand on the left side of her neck, the pain shot through her body again. The cop shocked her with something. Only he wasn’t a cop. Who were those guys? They had to be working together. She was an easy target and nobody is that bad of a shot to miss her for that long. Whoever it was, they were sending her a message. The thoughts made her head hurt as she shielded her eyes from the sun, which was inching its way above the horizon. Sherri rose to her feet and realized she had no shoes. She inspected her clothes, what little she wore. Rolling off the white stockings, she tossed them in the sand and untied her white shirt to cover her belly. She buttoned up her shirt and felt a little more comfortable. She slowly brushed the sand off her thighs, waist, and arms. Placing her hands in her deep red hair, she desperately tried to shake out the sand. It would take days, she determined, if not weeks, to get all of the sand out. She searched around her immediate area: no purse, no phone, and no car keys. When she started on this story, Sherri never realized she would experience something like this. She always enjoyed the sense of accomplishment from hard work. As an investigative reporter, she put herself in many compromising situations, but this had been the worst. Being shot at wasn’t something new, but being shot at with automatic weapons was a twist. Even in Sarajevo, she hadn’t faced such firepower. There she’d been dodging sniper fire. Sherri tried to analyze the events, but her head ached, and she realized she was dehydrated. She scanned the beach. The closest people to her were an elderly couple using metal detectors a hundred yards to the east. To the west, more people in the distance, the silhouettes of condos and hotels, and the familiar water tower of Pensacola Beach. She guessed it was about three miles away. Leaving the solitude of the sea oats and sand dunes of this isolated portion of the beach, Sherri trudged toward the water, then west, toward civilization.
Author Bio:
Michael Byars Lewis, is a former AC-130U ‘Spooky’ Gunship Evaluator Pilot with 18 years in Air Force Special Operations Command. A 25-year Air Force pilot, he has flown special operations combat missions in Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. His first novel, SURLY BONDS, won three awards—2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards: Silver Medal Finalist 1st Novel (Over 80,000 words), 2013 Readers’ Favorites: Bronze Medal (Fiction-Intrigue), and the 2014 Beverly Hills Book Awards: Winner (Military Fiction). Michael has an extensive social media footprint on Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, and Pinterest. Michael is currently a pilot for a major U.S. airline.
Join the Veil of Deception by Michael Byars Lewis Tour:
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Michael Byars Lewis. There will be 5 US winners of one (1) eBook copy of Michael Byars Lewis. The giveaway begins on April 18th and runs through May 30th, 2016.
Promised to the Crown (Daughters of New France, Book One) by Aimie K. Runyan
Publication Date: April 26, 2016
Kensington
Paperback & eBook; 352 Pages
Series: Daughters of New France
Genre: Historical Fiction
Bound for a new continent, and a new beginning. In her illuminating debut novel, Aimie K. Runyan masterfully blends fact and fiction to explore the founding of New France through the experiences of three young women who, in 1667, answer Louis XIV’s call and journey to the Canadian colony. They are known as the filles du roi, or “King’s Daughters”—young women who leave prosperous France for an uncertain future across the Atlantic. Their duty is to marry and bring forth a new generation of loyal citizens. Each prospective bride has her reason for leaving—poverty, family rejection, a broken engagement. Despite their different backgrounds, Rose, Nicole, and Elisabeth all believe that marriage to a stranger is their best, perhaps only, chance of happiness. Once in Quebec, Elisabeth quickly accepts baker Gilbert Beaumont, who wants a business partner as well as a wife. Nicole, a farmer’s daughter from Rouen, marries a charming officer who promises comfort and security. Scarred by her traumatic past, Rose decides to take holy vows rather than marry. Yet no matter how carefully she chooses, each will be tested by hardship and heartbreaking loss—and sustained by the strength found in their uncommon friendship, and the precarious freedom offered by their new home.
“An engaging, engrossing debut.”—Greer Macallister, USA Today bestselling author of The Magician’s Lie
“An absorbing adventure with heart.”—Jennifer Laam, author of The Secret Daughter of the Tsar
Aimie K. Runyan, member of the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and Women's Fiction Writers Association, has been an avid student of French and Francophone Studies for more than fifteen years. While working on her Master's thesis on the brave women who helped found French Canada, she was fortunate enough to win a generous grant from the Quebec government to study onsite for three months which enabled the detailed research necessary for her work. Aimie lives in Colorado with her husband and two children. For more information please visit Aimie's website. You can also find her on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and Goodreads.
My Thoughts
Between 1663 and 1673 approximately 800 women emigrated to Canada to marry and have children to protect the land for King Louis XIV from any country trying to steal the land from him. The 'New France' was mostly populated by men and natives. The women known as filles du roi, meaning that the women were recruited by the government and their passage was paid by the King, gave up what they knew or escaped to start a new life in an untamed land.
The women in Promised to the Crown were Nicole, who was set to marry but her betrothed married another and her father felt that this would be a good way for Nicole to marry well with no dowry. Rose, is an orphaned woman who must decide between becoming a Daughter of France or the stay at charity hospital she finds herself in, she decides to become a nun rather than marry and Elizabeth, is the daughter of a Parisian baker but after he dies, her mother sets up an arranged marriage and Elizabeth refuses.
These women are housed in a convent in Quebec when they arrive and men would come to pay court to the young women. These men would then decide on whom they wanted to marry, and have a family with. Almost like a mail order bride concept.
Elizabeth had worked with her father in the family bakery and she was skilled at baking. A baker asks for her hand and she agrees. Nicole marries a young man and they go to his cabin but she finds that it was not what she expected or what he promised her. He is killed accidently by the Huron and she is left a widow and pregnant forcing her to move back to the town and back in the marriage pool. Rose is scared to death of the prospect of intimacy that would be part of a marriage and wishes to become a nun. She has a year to see if she changes her mind.
Life in a new country begins for these three women and soon they are married and with children. Not everything is rosy, there are mean spirited people in the town but they persevere amongst heartbreak and loss.
I found this story to be quite interesting, I am sure I learned about the early history of Canada back in the day, but I don't remember this particular time. Definitely well researched and engaging characters will keep you interested until the end. I definitely look forward to the next in the trilogy, Duty to the Crown (Daughters of New France) which comes out in October of 2016. So if this is an era that you are interested in reading about, then this trilogy is one to read! I received a copy of this book for review purposes.
Two copies of Promised to the Crown by Aimie K. Runyan are up for grabs! To enter, please use the GLEAM form below. Rules – Giveaway ends at 11:59pm EST on May 31st. You must be 18 or older to enter. – Giveaway is open to US residents only. – Only one entry per household. – All giveaway entrants agree, to be honest and not cheat the systems; any suspect of fraud is decided upon by blog/site owner and the sponsor, and entrants may be disqualified at our discretion – Winner has 48 hours to claim prize or new winner is chosen. Promised to the Crown
Del lifted his black cowboy hat. “Good evening, ma’am.” She sputtered nervously, “What? Who says stuff like that anymore?” “Del Ericson.” He put his hand out in greeting. The woman took his hand and tilted her head. “I’m Lady, umm.” “Lady Umm?” Del tried to figure her out. “Is Lady your real name or a title?” “I don’t know.” She put her nose down and fumbled with the gas door. Lady’s tone of voice matched the distraught look in her eyes. Del thought he saw something deeper. She had a frozen smile attached to a poker face. Her expression got longer as she straightened to meet him. “The gas station is closed, but you can still get gas. It accepts credit cards at night. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Del gave a reassuring smile and began to turn away. “Oh no.” Lady’s composure went to panicky tears. “Oh no.” She repeated herself sickly. Lady stomped a high heeled shoe on the concrete and it made a weak click. “Oh no.” She lifted her face to his. “I lose again.” Lady had a little temper. Del considered her a loss. Then those three little words melted any preconceived notion of being spoiled or rich. She had said she lost again. Those words drew Del’s interest back. “What did you lose?” he asked. “Anonymity. I lose to technology.” She humpffed and a piece of brown hair floated above her cheek. When the wayward strand settled, it fell somewhere indifferently. “I just can’t ever run away from my family. They will see my credit card and follow my every move.” She looked up at Del. Her eyes held a serious look of discomfort. But there was more to it than that, it was a hopeless look about belonging. She grimaced like she wasn’t sure if he was a better place for her to turn toward or not.
Review Quotes:
5 stars: Sexy, steamy and action packed! This book is a best seller in the making. The guys are hott, the writers writing great, and the plot interesting! By Cutting Muse Book Blog – Laura and Makayla Redmon
4 Stars: Fashion, Farming, and a whole lotta love. What will Lady do?
Love steam and so much more. Lady wanting to be free from her family finds the happiness she wants with a man she never expected to meet. Del a farmer, just out to get gas, comes home with more than he bargained and found the one thing that would make him happy.
Running isn't easy when you have others that want you and will do anything to have you. Enter billionaire Royce Blackwater. He promises her the world.
See exciting and filled with drama and passion this is the type of book you could curl up with and stay nice and toasty without the need of a fire.
Another hit for Zoe! - The Book Fairy Reviews
About the Author:
Zoe Adams currently resides in Hawaii. She was born to a big family in the center of North America. A family store gave a lot of human interaction and work experience from a very young age.
Her mother gave a love for books, paper, pens, and any other creative mediums. Her father instilled work ethic for making, repairing, or polishing things until they shine. There was a lot of competition in the large family and Zoe learned how to tell a good story with few words.
When not writing she manages vacation rentals in world renowned Lanikai Beach. She can be found on the beach or kayaking with her husband and partner of thirteen years. They have no children but are perfectly content to spoil a dog.
It is Celticlady's Reviews pleasure to have Channing Turner, author of Jonathan's Shield here today! Scroll down to read the guest post!
Jonathan’s Shield
By Channing Turner
Genre: Biblical Historical
Beral's only goal is to serve loyally as Jonathan's shield bearer and protect his prince through whatever battles may come. But Jonathan needs a friend as well, a man he can trust while navigating the precarious footing of his father's court. Being that friend puts Beral's life in danger and stretches his loyalty to the breaking point. For what Jonathan wants is to do Yahweh's will, whether that be through defying his increasingly paranoid father, King Saul, or supporting the aspirations of young David, whom Jonathan believes is the rightful heir to the throne.
As he competes with David for the hand of the king's daughter, Beral struggles to hold true to his loyalties, even while he watches King Saul descend into madness.
If Yahweh withdraws his protective hand, Beral, and his men will be all that stand before their gathering enemies. Only one thing is certain: Beral's fate, as well as the future of Israel, is tied to the virtue of their king, and Saul's honor has long since fled.
Author Bio
A son of the South, Channing Turner grew up in Arkansas and Louisiana before graduating from Louisiana State University in Psychology. He did graduate work in marine biology and became an estuarine biologist along the Texas coast. After retiring from the petrochemical industry where he worked in Louisiana and Montana as a laboratory analyst, he managed the 2010 US Census in Montana and northern Wyoming. He now lives in eastern Washington with his wife, Barb.
Channing served in the army and was discharged as an Armor captain. Reading and writing are his sedentary pursuits, but he also enjoys riding his Tennessee Walker in the Blue Mountains of Washington and Oregon.
I suppose that in an unstructured post like this I can ramble along in the manner of a James Joyce stream of consciousness. Some folks might call it a rant, but, since I get to pick the topic(s), I thought I’d go into some observations about being a first-time author. I now have a published novel so I qualify as an expert example.
First of all, I’ve discovered there are scads of books and magazines out there with advice about writing a book—POV, “show, don’t tell”, settings, plots, voice, how much sex, how much profanity, timelines, outlines, etc, etc. I’ve bought them all and read those pieces with great interest. In the end, however, I don’t think I followed many of their suggestions except for “show, don’t tell”. That was the one piece of instruction that jerked me up short. You don’t realize you’re doing a “telling, not showing” yourself until you have some examples pointed out to you. But, once you do see it, you’ll find it everywhere in your first draft. That one nugget of advice turned out to be the biggest gold find for me in a heap big pile of slag. Otherwise, it seemed better to just write in whatever style I felt comfortable doing without trying to remember all those conflicting opinions. I know I did draw heavily on the styles of writers I admire and like to read, except maybe Shakespeare.
Secondly. So what did I find helpful rather than a few “How to” readings? Easy. My writers critique group. Once a week, more or less, I meet with a small collection of people who have varying experience at writing, from published author to never-finished-anything-yet novice. It’s a beta reader ensemble without your family and friends. We each submit a piece of our work, such as a chapter or short story, via the internet. You do that a few days beforehand to give everyone time. Then it is dissected by the others when we gather face to face. It gives almost instant feedback on whatever you’re working on, and then you get to help--I hope--someone else with their project. Remember my saying that I had to have my own “showing, not telling” put up in my face before I could see it? Where do you think that happened? That’s right, the critique group. It has been, hands down, the most useful and, for the most part, enjoyable help that I’ve had in writing. It also keeps you accountable to someone else for those times when you feel like slacking off. Find a group yourself, and join it if you can.
For the third observation, I’ll impart, let's talk a little bit about what happens after you get a book published.( I know, I know. I’m leaving out the part about getting an agent or publisher. That’s hard, I admit, but I don’t want to cover that topic now, and remember, this is my rant.) As you probably already realize, writing a novel or almost anything else, is mostly done alone. Even with the support of that writer's group that welcomed you with open arms, it’s still basically just you and a laptop in a room somewhere. Then, after months or a year or so, you get it done and present your creation to the world. Let me tell you, it’s like someone turned over the rotten log you were hiding under. Suddenly you’re exposed, blinking and stinking, in bright sunlight. Your pasty white (in some cases) skin will redden, and you get uncomfortable. You start having to tell strangers about your writing and about yourself. Those wriggly critters you always see trying to scatter when their log is upended are doing so because they didn’t expect any of this. They may have been dreaming once about coming out into the daylight, but they didn’t know it would be like this. Some of them thought it would never happen anyway. That’s what my coming out party has been like. It surprised me just how much self-marketing is involved with being an author. Don’t get me wrong. This blog tour with its posts and reviews has actually been a lot of fun. After all, everybody’s favorite topic is themselves. I just didn’t see all this post-writing work coming.
All right, I just reread everything I wrote so far, and I see it’s pretty vague and really doesn’t explain a thing to any great degree so I’m truly not that much of an expert on being a novice. However, if you’d like, drop me a comment. I can always make up some more stuff. I would be pleased to hear from you.
The last thing Zack Westland expects on a frigid night is to be summoned to an exorcism.
Demonic possession, however, proves the least of his problems. Father Frank, a veteran turned priest, knows Zack’s deepest secrets, recognizing him as Anakim—an angel of the hidden tribe. And Halley, the girl they’ve come to save, carries a secret that could unlock a centuries-old evil. She chants an eerie rhyme, and she isn’t alone…
“HANDS TO TAKE AND EYES TO SEE.
A MOUTH TO SPEAK. HE COMES FOR ME.”
As Zack's secrets spill out, far more than his life is at stake, for Halley is linked to an ancient conspiracy. Yet Zack can't help her unless he's willing to risk losing his immortality—and reigniting the Blood Wars.
Praise for Conspiracy of Angels:
“Horrors that will send a chill up your spine.” —The Absolute
“A singular reading experience.” —Laurell K. Hamilton, bestselling creator of Anita Blake, vampire hunter
Michael Byars Lewis, is a former AC-130U ‘Spooky’ Gunship Evaluator Pilot with 18 years in Air Force Special Operations Command. A 25-year Air Force pilot, he has flown special operations combat missions in Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. His first novel, SURLY BONDS, won three awards—2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards: Silver Medal Finalist 1st Novel (Over 80,000 words), 2013 Readers’ Favorites: Bronze Medal (Fiction-Intrigue), and the 2014 Beverly Hills Book Awards: Winner (Military Fiction). Michael has an extensive social media footprint on Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, and Pinterest. Michael is currently a pilot for a major U.S. airline.
